The three friends were the oldest boys in the house, and almost in the school. Two of them, Strachan and Kavanagh, were to leave at the end of the half, and Forsyth was to do so after the next.
“Where’s Kavanagh?” said the latter, coming into the room and sitting down by the fire.
“At his tutor’s,” said Strachan; “he is bound to be in directly. Let the tea brew a bit longer.”
“It’s uncommonly cold this evening; going to snow, I think. I hate snow in February; there is no chance of real frost for skating, and it spoils the football. Oh, here’s Kavanagh.”
The youth named strolled deliberately in at the moment, sat down at the table, and began to shave off a slice of ham.
“Has the cold wind made you hungry, or has the effort to understand that chorus in Euripides exhausted you?”
“I never try to understand what I firmly believe to have no meaning whatever,” drawled Kavanagh; “and I am never hungry. I consider it bad form to be hungry; it shows that a fellow does not eat often enough. Now the distinguishing mark of a gentleman is that he has too many meals a day ever to feel hungry.”
“I see; then you are only carving the ham for us.”
“That does not exactly follow. Never jump to conclusions. A fire may not actually require coals, yet you may put some on to keep it going; so it is with a gentleman’s stomach. You may take ham to appease hunger, or you may take it to prevent the obtrusion of that vulgar sensation. Not that I object to helping you fellows. The carving of ham is an art, a fourpenny piece representing the maximum of thickness which the lean should obtain. With a carving-knife and fork this ideal is not too easy of attainment, but with these small blunt tools it requires a first-rate workman to approach it. Now this slice, which I sacrifice on the altar of friendship, is, I regret to say, fully as thick as a shilling.”
At this moment a little boy, Kavanagh’s fag, came into the room bearing a muffin on a toasting-fork.